The Fairer Inconvenience
by MotorcycleChickenSmile
Summary: As long as Watson has known him, Holmes has had an unusual aversion to members of the opposite sex. But what will happen when the crime-solving duo has no choice but to share lodgings with an infirm woman?


A/N; This is the week of the ancient, unfinished fic postings. This is my second Sherlock Holmes fic, and this one chapter is all I have finished so far. I'm going to make my decision on whether or not to continue this based on how many reviews I get. If I get ten reviews for this chapter ( yes, I'm greedy, and yes, I kind of don't want to have to finish this ) I'll write another one. Hope you like!

Disclaimer; Sherlock Homes is the property of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle whom I LOVE and would probably marry if he wasn't already taken. And dead.

_The Fairer Inconvenience_

_Chapter 1_

For as long as I have known him, which has indeed now been a rather intimate number of years, my friend Sherlock Holmes has been a man of remarkable mood swings. He has the queer habit of changing dispositions as off-handedly as other men might change hats. One minute, he is the very picture of health, happiness, and virile energy that comes only from the sheer thrill and ecstasy of being alive and at work in one's passion. The next, he is a slumping, miserable, black-shadowed creature of boredom and depression; and then at the slightest drop of a new case, he returns to himself again. I have, with time, grown accustomed to these fitful changes in demeanor; I have even developed a skill of predicting them now and then. Such was the case, one comfortably crisp night in early October, many years ago now, when I was desperately endeavoring to lift the most recent of Holmes' "black fits"; the nearly incurable bouts of depression he periodically experienced whenever work was scarce for too long.

"Come now, Holmes. Surely this is a bit excessive."

My friend shrugged his hunched, wiry shoulders in a way that suggested he truly did not care. He was curled up in a ball on the floor between a dining chair and a bookcase, looking for all the world like a miserable child. His treasured violin, perhaps the only ( healthy ) object which brought him something like happiness during the black fits, was tucked beneath his chin as he wailed out from it a tune of such mourning it was akin to melodrama.

"Must you sit on the floor like that?"

A repeated shrug, as well as a mild sigh, was all I received in return.

I oughtn't have been surprised. There had been no new cases for nearly a month, something almost unheard of in the autumn. With the set in of cold weather, the criminals normally came out in droves.

"Listen, Holmes," I tried a third time. "I've heard that the Salsburg Orchestra is playing in the Norbury Street Theater tonight at nine o'clock. If we hurry, we can just make the opening movement. You can't spend every night moping about this place. And you needn't try and hide it...I know full well you adore the Salsburg Orchestra. You positively raved about them on their tour last year."

It seemed I had at last caught the attention of my friend. His listless gray eyes, which had been glazed and dull for weeks, gradually began to spark and flash again with their old exuberance. He sighed again, shifting the violin to rest on the floor. He seemed caught in silent debate with himself for a moment. Then, with another great exhalation of breath, and a weak smile in my direction, he lifted himself from the floor.

"Good old Watson. You are right, of course. My dear doctor, whenever did you and I switch roles? It seemed only yesterday that you were the voice of passion and I that of reason. We seem to have become quite reversed."

I smiled broadly. The sound of Holmes' voice had already improved miraculously. I thanked heaven that one of his favorite orchestras happened to be playing in London that night.

"There's a good man. You won't regret it."

And indeed, the evening was more than I could have hoped for. Even before the rise of the first curtain, I could see that

Holmes was in better spirits than he had been in weeks, talking and smiling with his good old veracity of confidence. The players of Salsburg were in excellent form. Numerous times Holmes leaned over to whisper musical notations and his calculated approval of their measure and timing in my ear. I have never been musical, and knew nothing of what he spoke of half the time, but it was a great pleasure to see him his old self again.

After the final movement of the third symphony, when the Salsburg Orchestra had finished their bows ( during which I discovered, incidentally, yet another striking talent of the great detective; he could whistle through his fingers at a louder, longer, and shriller note than I had ever heard ), it was yet only eleven thirty, and since neither Holmes nor myself were tired, we idled away another hour and a half at out favorite pub in Norbury Street. Neither of us are heavy drinkers, but the atmosphere was warm and cheery enough, even well after midnight. I knew that the final reparations to my friend's black mood had been made when he engaged me for over twenty minutes in a conversation over the comparisons of modern British drinking pubs to the communal mead halls of the ancient Anglo-Saxons. Finally, at one o'clock in the morning, we started for home, both of us in fine spirits.

It was a bit of a walk back to our rooms in Baker Street, but the night air was so deliciously cool and sharp that we elected to walk rather than hail a cab.

Oh, what a decision that was.

But how could we have possibly known that in simply choosing to walk instead of ride, we had unwittingly plunged ourselves into the depths of one of the most singular and darkly troubling mysteries Holmes would ever encounter in his career? Indeed; my friend is by no means an emotional man, but this particular case, before it had come to a close, would breed in him such displays of feeling I had never imagined possible.

But we were not aware of any of that when we started out through the lamplit streets of London that night. Being as late as it was, the cobblestone roads were virtually deserted; we saw not more than four of five other people traversing the sidewalks, and as few as three hansoms rattling the streets.

It just so happened as we were rounding the corner that would take us to the farthest end of Baker Street that we were passed by a young couple, walking arm in arm in the opposite direction of us. The gentleman tilted his head in gentile acknowledgment, and we returned the gesture out of courtesy, but the lady took no notice of either of us. I admittedly found myself craning my neck backward to look at the two of them as they ambled away. The woman was a small, delicate thing, with pinned up curls of the fairest blonde and a dress of attractive periwinkle blue. She was resting her weary head on her husband's shoulder as he caressed her temple and whispered into her ear.

I felt a very uncharacteristic pang of envy for them. It was not often that I longed for the company of a woman, but I was not quite so cold at heart as the great detective; when I wished for a love of my own, I wished very heartily indeed

( this was of course before I had met my dear wife through that imfamous incident of "The Sign of Four" ).

As I watched the young couple vanish around the corner we had just come, a strange and pressing thought suddenly struck me. I had never tested this train of thought with Holmes, though several times I had wished to; abruptly, I felt a greater desire to try my luck than ever before.

"Holmes," I said in as casual a tone as I could. "Have you ever considered marriage?"

A stiff, mirthless chuckle met my inquiry. "No, Watson, I cannot say that I have."

"Have you never thought of it? Even in passing?"

"I have thought of it as an interesting statute of existence, yes. But I have never given it the most trifling consideration in regards to myself."

I sighed. I had feared this cold-mannered response. I could sense at this point when Holmes didn't want to talk about something, but for some unplaceable reason I was determined.

"Speaking hypothetically, Holmes, if you ever were to marry, what sort of girl would you look for?"

At this Holmes halted quickly and turned to pin me with a suspicious stare. "Why all the sudden curiosity, Watson? You wouldn't happen to have some hidden agenda I might wish to know about, would you?"

"Of course not," I replied, slightly offended. "I've nothing of the kind. I was simply wondering, is all....I've never heard you speak even once about the type of woman you admire."

Another cynical laugh as we continued walking. "The answer to that is simple, my dear doctor. I do not admire women."

"Surely there must be some specimen of the breed you find attractive."

"I can say with impunity that there is not."

"You truly detest women, then? All women, with no exception?"

"Detest is an ugly word, Watson; though I cannot claim that I do not possess a very severe dislike of them. In my experience the company of women in general has bred nothing but ill consequences, I'm afraid. In addition to my uncommon habits and lifestyle, I have long concluded that I am quite simply and in all respects better off without them."

All of Holmes' talk of observation of important evidence has not been utterly lost on me. My ears perked up at an incriminating sentence, and I jumped at the opportunity to at last hold the upper hand.

"'In your experience?'" I repeated, unable to keep from smiling triumphantly. "Pray, sir, what might your 'experience' be?"

It is not often that I see an expression of sheepishness on my friend's face. In fact, I believe this may have been the first. But it was undeniably there, for however fleeting an instant; those strong, hawk-like features softened for one passing moment into the all too human look of defeat. In the blink of an eye, however, he had returned to his masterful self.

"Ah, dear, inquisitive Watson. I'm afraid that, for once, I am inclined to leave your doubtless well-meaning inquiries in the dark. Do forgive me."

I was about to open my mouth to reply when all of a sudden, our quiet, tranquil night was shattered by a sound that I swear I will never forget for as long as I live. Through my experiences with sherlock Holmes, I have heard many a frightened scream--thousands of them, likely--and yet never before had I heard a scream of such sheer, blood-curdling terror. The single shrill note seemed to last an eternity before it straggled off into a low and miserable wail. Holmes caught my gaze in his, and I saw the eruption of flashing, steel-cold light in his eyes, and immediately a connection of duty passed between us. We, most of all he, had heard that sort of scream far too many times. It was the cry of an ill-used woman.

Without a moment's delay we were off and running in the direction of the shriek. It had come from remarkably close by, and it's terrified trill echoed through the empty streets as well as if we had been inside a canyon. Holmes, possessing legs a great deal longer than mine, had soon outdistanced me, though I sprinted as well as I could to keep up behind him.

"Quickly, Watson! Not an instant to lose!" he called to me, his voice having transformed from the debonair joviality of an evening out to the razor-like precision of a call to arms.

Holmes reached the scene of the horror before me. It was in a dark, narrow alley cut between two towering brick buildings. The thin slit of space was closed off by a high-boarded fence, leaving it with less than twenty yards length and twenty feet

width. I saw the tall, lean figure of my friend pivot into the alley, his voice already raised in a commanding demand of surrender to whatever fiend had befallen the victim....when suddenly his yell cut short. He fell off into absolute silence in such a way that it made my heart catch in my chest. What unspeakable sight had met him in the alley?

I was breathing heavily and strung tight with horrific anticipation as I rounded the corner. There stood Holmes, staring down the narrow alley with his back to me. His arms were at his sides, and he seemed frozen in immobility. For a moment, I could see nothing beyond him.

"Holmes," I gasped, moving to stand beside him. I caught a glimpse of his sharp profile, and was taken aback by his expression. He appeared to be stranded in the rigity of complete and utter shock.

"Holmes," I repeated. "What....what is it?"

But at that moment, I turned to peer down the alley, and I am certain my expression became a perfect match of that of my companion. I am as rational a man as any other, but for one moment I would have staked my very soul on the idea that there, standing before us, was a genuine ghost.

But it was not a spirit. It was a woman. The first thing I believe I realized about her was her face. It was set in the most haunting look of utmost emptiness that I have ever seen. Her eyes, two wide lamps of brilliant hazel, stared at us as if looking straight through us. Her beautiful, angelic features were devoid of any light or cognizant thought. Her hair was as red as rust, and hung freely in flowing, curly tresses nearly to her waist. It was in following her hair with my eyes that I abruptly registered the most shocking aspect of her appearance. She was as naked as the day God made her.

The woman stood before us, fully erect and without a trace of shame ( or even of consciousness, for that matter ). Her skin was luminescently white, and every contour of her body shone in the half-light of the streetlamps and the blue, cold glow of the crescent moon above. She was of average height, for a woman, and her full figure, though thick and heavy in some places where she might better have been slight, was stunning. I cannot deny that for a generous number of seconds I forgot all pretense of modesty or gentility and simply stared at her in full wonder and surprise. It was only her horribly vacant expression that marred her strange, stout beauty.

Both Holmes and myself might never have recovered the mental facility to move, had the woman not acted first. Before we even registered what we had seen, the strange, naked creature's eyes widened, then rolled back in her head; and she collapsed on the glistening cobblestones in a dead faint. Her limp body made a horrific sound as it struck the ground, falling listless and still.

Holmes, to his credit, shook from the trance before me. In a lightning-quick movement he sprang forward, fluidly removing the long overcoat from his own shoulders and draping it across the pale body. He knelt beside her and hurriedly took her pulse, then gently opened her eyelids to examine for a concussion.

"Come, Watson, come! For heaven's sake man, come and examine her!"

I shook as if waking from a dream, feeling more than a bit foolish. "Of course!"

I rushed to the woman's side and obeyed my friend's orders, checking the woman's head and neck for injuries. From my rough, rapid estimate, there appeared to be none. Dumbfounded, I checked her vitals. She was breathing regularly and her pulse was normal. What could have possibly happened to the poor creature?

"Holmes," I muttered, eyeing her blank face incredulously, "This woman bears no mark of injury anywhere."

Holmes was already at work, pacing up and down the alley in his shirtsleeves, scrupulously inspecting the walls and pavement for any sign of criminal intent.

"Anywhere?" he confirmed absently, his mind already distracted with capturing every detail and minutae of the scene.

"Well...." I realized my own statement with some sheepishness, "....nowhere on her head."

"Then examine her body, man!" he cried, shooting me an incriminating glare. "Honestly, Watson, are you a doctor or aren't you?"

And here, I must confess, my own humility nearly overcame me, for though of the medical profession I may be, it was certainly not my habit to examine female patients, let alone fully unclothed female patients.

"But....Holmes, I...."

"Damn modesty, Watson, the woman may be dying! Check her for injuries this instant!"

When Holmes takes on that iron-clad voice of command and reason that he alone have I known to possess, it is impossible to disobey him. It was with no slight warming of my cheeks, however, when I stiffly worked up the courage to draw back Holmes' coat. The impeccable whiteness of the woman's bare skin shone like paper in the dim light. With trembling hands I gently turned her body on the pavement, jarring her as little as possible while I searched for signs of violence. There were none. No bleeding, no broken bones, no torn or lacerated flesh; not even so much as a single bruise. When I had finally attained medical satisfaction that there was no injury whatsoever on her person, it was with immense relief that I covered the unconscious woman once more.

Rising shakily to my feet, I turned to see Holmes holding his chin and staring down at the pavement, tapping his foot impatiently. The moment I was beside him, he turned and implored me with eager eyes.

"Well? Anything at all?"

Sadly, I shook my head. "It's the most inexplicable thing I've ever seen. She's out in a cold, unconscious faint, and we heard the scream for ourselves....but I swear that there are no signs of violence upon her anywhere. Not a single scratch to be found, Holmes."

The detective narrowed his eyes. "You're positive, then? You're absolutely sure?"

I nodded gravely.

Holmes exhaled and thoughtfully covered his mouth with his hand.

"The crime scene is equally bare," he muttered, and I sensed, like so many other times, that he was speaking more to himself than to me. "I can find no mark or imprint anywhere. The fence in the alley is impassable, and there is no other exit from the enclosure. There aren't even any footprints, and the night is wet enough; surely anyone walking from the street should have tracked mud at least a few feet. The place is entirely clean."

The great thinker closed his eyes in stern concentration, but returned to reality quickly and with vigorous energy.

"Nevertheless, this is serious business, Watson. Someone has assaulted this woman, and we must get her more thorough medical attention as soon as possible."

Holmes strode quickly to the fallen body of the woman, and then did something which I would never have expected of him, though looking back on it, it appears the only possible course of action. As tenderly as if he were moving an object made of glass, he bent down and lifted the limp woman in his arms, carefully wrapping his coat behind her and situating her head so that it rested against his shoulder. The instant she was settled, he turning and moved with admirable quickness back into the street. I followed closely at his heels.

In spite of the urgency of the moment, I must say that I could not help being struck by that uncommon image of my friend. He carried the unfortunate girl in so expert a manner and with such gentility of motion, you might imagine he did such a thing every day. Then again, it is a quite a natural instinct for a man to know how best to carry a fallen woman; even men as sterile and detached as Holmes are born with some innate knowledge of care for the feminine creature. Never before had the detective looked as striking and chivalrous as he did while cradling that poor, beautiful specimen.

I managed to catch up with Holmes' long, speedy strides, and he spoke to me in a calculating tone of business.

"We must take her to Baker Street," he said briskly, the energy of a mission live and vibrant in his voice. "It is the closest point. You have your medical bag there, Watson, do you not? I thought so. Once there you can administer more attentive care. I shall send Billy at once for Scotland Yard. The sooner we have her revived and she capable of speech, the sooner we shall come to the bottom of this grotesque misfortune."

~0~0~0~0~0~0~0~0~

The party that assembled in our living room at Baker Street made for a stuffy atmosphere indeed. In addition to Holmes, Mrs. Hudson, Billy the page boy, and myself, there wwas Inspector Gregson, Inspector Lestrade, and Dr. Barker, a highly recommended surgeon and neurologist. Seeing as our quarters are typically occupied by no greater number than Holmes and I, it was an uncommon sight for our humble abode. And then, of course, there was the unconscious body of the poor victim lying in the next room, attended by Dr. Barker's young assistant.

"This story you've given us is rather fishy, Mr. Holmes. I'm nearly inclined to believe you are withholding something from us," Lestrade remarked tactlessly under his breath.

My friend's long-suffering patience showed through in his wry smile. "Believe me, Inspector, when I say that I truly wish I had something more to report. The circumstances of this little incident are most irregular, and there is scarcely a scrap of evidence to be found."

"Let me be absolutely sure of these happenings," Gregson spoke up, rising from his seat to stand beside his partner. "You and Dr. Watson overheard a female scream. You ran to the source of the sound and found this woman standing alone in a deserted alley, sans any manner of clothing whatsoever, and within seconds of your arrival she fainted."

"Yes, those are the same facts with which I regaled you only moments ago," Holmes replied with mild clenching of his teeth. To his credit, it was a wonder he could remain as civil as he was to the two blindly skeptical officers of the law. I might have become rather hot, given the same situation. How dare they mistrust someone who had given them so many years of invaluable assistance?

Inspector Lestrade shook his head. "It is rather fantastic, particularly the fact that there is no sign of injury on her person. But I believe we shall all be best served by a thorough diagnosis from Dr. Barker."

"Yes, by all means," my friend affirmed with visible relief. I could sense that he was grateful for an open course of action. "This way, if you please, doctor," he motioned the quiet, gray-bearded man into his own bedroom. Like a flock of sheep we followed them, myself brimming with eagerness and curiosity. I could not forget the terrible sadness and vacancy which I had seen on our lovely patient's face the moment before she slipped into darkness. I prayed that the young lady was indeed as well as her physical appearance suggested.

Inside Holmes' bedroom, the lamps had been turned to full light, and the unfortunate woman had been laid on his bed, her brilliant red hair fanned around her head on the pillow. Our dear landlady had been good enough to dress her in long cotton nightclothes, to the great relief of Holmes and myself ( neither of us had mentioned it, of course, but I believe we were both somewhat shaken and perturbed by the inappropriate state in which we had found her ).

Dr. Barker's assistant, who had been periodically checking up on the woman's status, dutifully stepped aside at the approach of his master, who leaned over the unconscious patient and prepared to administer her first proper examination. I had endeavoured to do the same myself when we had first arrived back in Baker Street, but found my nerves too shaken, and the proper authorities at our door within minutes besides. Holmes stood on the right side of the bed, his scrupulous gray orbs darted up and down the still body as if in search of any possible clue. I gleaned from his dismal expression that he saw none. The other curious spectators and I all crowded round the foot of the bed as Dr. Barker began administering his services.

After about ten minutes of rigorous medical inspection, the doctor declared her completely free of any physical malady he could determine. The woman had not been wounded, poisoned, or drugged in any conceivable manner.

"Then surely the only possibility is a mental berievement," I suggested.

"Precisely, Dr. Watson," the wisened Dr. Barker confirmed. "I believe the only way to discover the extent of the cerebral damage is to draw her into consciousness. Andrew, the smelling salts."

The assistant quickly supplied him the appropriate vial. The doctor uncorked it and expertly began passing the container back and forth beneath the lady's nose and mouth, the invisible vapors wafting into the recesses of her respiratory system.

For a long few moments, it seemed the salts would fail to rouse her. But then, quite suddenly, those large hazel eyes which I recalled with such discomfort began to bat heavily, rolling from side to side, until finally they opened fully, and she was staring in a blank stupor up at the ceiling.

"At last!" Holmes cried exultantly. "We shall get to the bottom of this mess."

Gingerly, with Dr. Barker on her right and Holmes on her left, the woman was eased into a sitting position. She was as limp as a rag doll, and once successfully propped against my friend's headboard she proceeded to troll her dull gaze slowly around the room like a baby surveying the world for the first time.

"She is awake, but not yet fully conscious," Holmes observed, leaning over and peering into the woman's face. I thought that for a brief moment her gaze was locked on him, but she soon turned away again.

"I think it would be best if all of you cleared back into the sitting room," Dr. Barker suddenly straightened up and instructed us. "Mr. Holmes and I will attempt to interview the woman."

"I should think two accredited inspectors of Scotland Yard should be present at such a juncture," Lestrade snapped angrily.

"You will be informed of everything in due time, gentleman," Holmes retorted with a touch more courtesy, but only a touch. "At present you will obey the doctor's recommendation or I shall see you removed from the premesis by force."

Gregson, Lestrade, Mrs. Hudson and Billy begrudgingly left the room, the former two muttering indiscriminately under their breath. Holmes clucked his tongue at their backs.

"I do wonder at times about the rapidly degrading state of our law enforcement. What can have happened to the minds of justice in this last century? But I digress! Doctors Barker and Watson, is the victim at all able to communicate?"

I had stepped closer to the woman's bedside and was following Dr. Barker in his observations. He lit a match and passed it side to side before her eyes, which followed its course.

"There. She is fully conscious. If she had anything to say, now would be the first possible opportunity."

Holmes hastened back to the woman and eagerly, yet gently, sat down at the edge of the bed and addressed her openly, those hard gray eyes flashing in suppressed excitement.

"Young lady," he began in a calm, firm voice. "You need not be frightened. You are in my lodgings at 221 B, Baker Street, and you have just been roused from unconsciousness. Do you understand me?"

The red-haired woman stared at Holmes as dumbly as if he were speaking Chinese. Save for a number of curious blinks, she did not respond.

Holmes tried again. "Do you understand me, madam? I ask you to please blink three times rapidly if you can hear my voice and understand my words."

The woman blinked three times in quick succession. Holmes ejaculated a cry of laughter.

"Aha! Excellent. Now, madam, please answer me this; are you at all able to speak with us? Blink twice for yes, once for no."

Two rapid blinks.

"Splendid. I am very regretted to inform you that you have this night been the victim of some very troubling foul play. My friend Dr. Watson and I discovered you alone and berieved in an alley not five blocks from here, shortly after which you fainted. Pray, tell us; what happened? Who are you? What is your name?"

At this, Holmes' interview met a brick wall of unresponsiveness. The woman stared at him in silence.

My friend's patience in matters such as these was limitless. He soothingly lifted one of the woman's hands in his own and massaged it, leaning closer toward her. The man could be dashedly suave when he wished to.

"I implore you to answer, madam. We may yet be able to intercept your assailants, if indeed there were any. Speak to me. You need fear no scandal, if your situation is an intimate one. But we must have the villain responsible. Were you attacked? Were you struck with fear by something? Did someone assault you in any way?"

Nothing. The woman was a venerable doll, the only sign of life eminating from her gently breathing chest and large, dewy, constantly surveying eyes.

With a very small sigh, Holmes rose to his feet.

"We shall get no farther with this, I am afraid," he said wearily. "For whatever reason, the woman is impassable. If she refuses to speak, and there can be nothing gleaned from a physical examination, then she bears nothing further on the case. Our only option is to re-investigate the scene of the incident in proper daylight, and in the meanwhile we must immediately begin running advertisements for the girl's family. Doubtless they will come for her within the day, if we relocate her to a more suitable facility. Dr. Barker, I would request that you take her to the women's holding ward of Charing Hospital tonight. I shall arrange for the notices in the....."

But my friend's instructions were abruptly cut off by the eruption of the most hideous cry a human could hope to produce. The three of us jolted and turned to our patient, who had sat bolt upright in bed and was wearing such an expression of terror and misery on her visage that it fairly turned my blood cold. Before any of us could move she had sprung from the bed, torn across the room, and thrown herself at Holmes. The detective's look of surprise could not have been greater, as I am sure were my own and Dr. Barker's. The girl was gasping for breath, as if she were on the verge of sobbing, and she had wrapped her arms tightly around Holmes neck, veritably hanging on him. They might have tumbled to the floor had Holmes not braced her shoulders with his hands and steadied them both. He threw me a look of utter shock, combined with his ever-present gleam of churning thought. He was studying this new development in his mind even as it occurred.

It was with immense difficulty that Dr. Barker and I assisted Holmes in prying the woman's hands away and forcing her back upon the bed. All the while her gasping cries grew louder and more desperate until she actually burst into tears and fell down senseless on the comforter. She resigned herself to quiet weeping and turned her face into the pillow.

"Watson, ring for Mrs. Hudson. Have her stay with the woman," Holmes ordered, his voice almost shaking. He turned on his heel and strode briskly from the room.

Fifteen minutes later, once the police inspectors and Andrew the assistant had been turned out of Baker Street and Mrs. Hudson had taken up watch over our inexplicably hysterical patient, Holmes, Dr. Barker and I were seated round the living room in contemplating silence. I could see from his posture and from the rapidity with which he smoked his pipe that Holmes' brain was running in overdrive, analyzing and turning over the evidence with the determination of a hunting hawk.

"It is most singular," he would mutter to himself every minute or so. "Most singular...."

Dr. Barker had sunk into his own state of silent contemplation, and at about the time the clock struck two-thirty a.m. he looked up with a strange light in his eyes. He turned to me and spoke in a calm, marveling tone.

"You know, Dr. Watson, I have just thought of something."

Instantly Holmes' head shot up and his attention was fully engaged.

"What is it?" he asked eagerly.

Dr. Barker's gaze traveled between us as he explained. "It had not occurred to me before, since there had been no physical injury, but it is distinctly possible that the woman is suffering from I.A.D."

It is not in Holmes' habit to retain knowledge that is of no use to his work, and so I gleaned from his curious eyes that he had never heard of the condition. But the recitation of those three fateful letters brought to my mind a vast swell of memories.

"Of course!" I cried. "I had never thought of that. But her symptoms are all in line."

"What is I.A.D.?" Holmes asked, leaning intently towards us.

Dr. Barker looked at me to answer. "I.A.D.," said I. "Irrational Attachment Disorder. I've seen it a score of times in the army. It is a mental affliction that rather commonly sets in with trauma victims; survivors of hideous battles, or sufferers of severe war-wounds, etc. The subject, after experiencing a traumatizing shock or injury, may become mindlessly attached to a certain object or person in a childish sense of seeking comfort. Oftentimes this attachment can set in moments after the initial shock. It is typically something trivial that they become devoted to, however; a watch or a specific memento from home, or some such thing. Very rarely is it a person they cling to."

At this, my friend heaved a long, heavy sigh, and briefly touched his hand to his brow; he had already made the implicating deduction.

I felt like a coroner informing the next of kin.

"She displays all the symptoms, Holmes," I said apologetically. "Refusal or inability of speech, abrupt fainting, violent throes of despair....they are the telltale signs."

Holmes was holding his tear ducts in his fingers, the image of a weary man who foresees greater weariness ahead.

"She has chosen her subject of attachment, then," he murmured.

I hung my head.

"It appears so," Dr. Barker added gravely.

For a moment all was silent.

With effort, Holmes rose to his feet. He was not a man to indulge discomfort in the face of a problem, no matter what form such discomfort may take. I could see from the renewed steel of his set, chiseled features that he refused to be daunted by this most awkward situation.

"Doctor," he said, addressing the older man. "What would you recommend in treatment for this disorder?"

Dr. Barker shook his head. "I'm afraid there is no solution through medication, Mr. Holmes. In cases of I.A.D., the only option of treatment is heavy therapy. Otherwise, there is no choice but to wait the condition out. In most cases it will fade within a number of weeks, dependent on the circumstances."

Holmes nearly gave way to a cringe, but he fought it back.

"What, then, is to be done with the girl?"

"I am sorry, sir, but there is a definite danger in separating her from you," Dr. Barker replied. "Especially in the early phases, I.A.D. can have disastrous self-inflicted physical consequences. If the young lady is forced apart from you, she may suffer a complete nervous breakdown, ending in severe depression or nervous dementia. The worst cases have ended in mentally-instigated muscle decay, refusal of nourishment, and eventually, suicidal attempts."

For a moment, Holmes turned his back on us and bent down his head. He stood as still as a statue, but from some unseen source I felt a terrible aura of darkness around him. Before I could place his exact emotion, he had regarded us once more.

"It seems, then, that I have no choice," he spoke gravely. "Watson, the young lady must take up lodgings with us."

"I could have a nurse sent, if you like, Mr. Holmes," Dr. Barker offered. "She could tend to the patient so that neither you nor Dr. Watson need be troubled by her."

Holmes smiled thinly, an acid touch to his voice. "I think that it is rather too late for us to go untroubled by her. Thank you, doctor, but it is serious enough that my quarters be increased by one unwarranted guest. I do not think I could bear the presence of a second. Mrs. Hudson shall see to the lady's needs. I cannot thank you enough for your assistance, Dr. Barker, and I shall call upon you if any further developments ensue. Thank you again."

A/N; A bit more far-fetched than my first Sherlock Holmes fic, yes. And yes, I completely invented I.A.D. But, if I get enough reviews, maybe I'll consider finishing this preposterous thing.


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